Thursday, July 22, 2004
The Future Is Now
After my vacation, I had thought I would take this blog down a literary-ish path. I have had about twenty drafts piled up in the ole Blogger Draft queue and about ten more in my head. I tried a 'literary entry' with my sleeping-on-the-floor story.
But I don't feel like being literary today. In fact, since I've been back I haven't felt much like being literary at all.
Instead, I feel like being random and superficial. So much more fun. And a more accurate portrayal of how my scatter brain works. Are you ready? Here we go...
Grace and I went on a nice walk the other day. She wasn't particularly peppy, probably because her evil human companion had her in the 'spa' for over a week. We went to Carillon Park, which looks like it was developed in Dayton's sunset of ruling the industrial world. (If I had to guess, the 1960s. The tame, avacado 1960s; not those commie pinko summer-of-love, "other" 1960s.)
According to a naughty weblink a friend once set me, parts of the park are 'sociable' (if you know what I mean nudge nudge wink wink). However, dear bloggies, that is *not* why I went there with Grace.
Other than a belltower that is now so out-of-tune that any song it plays is muddled noise, there are a couple of Ye Not-So-Olde Historick Buildings uprooted and "restored" from other places. There is a bike path (where the 'socializing' occurs) along the river, and wide fields. It is the wide fields that Grace and I walked. We -- well, Grace in her hunting-dog mode -- came across a discarded CD.
Fo' Shizzle Izzle
It was Snoop Doggy Dogg y'all. Tha Bo$$. I've been listening to it ever since -- or the last few days at least. Sho can lay down a rhyme. Sometimes. He has two song types: Highly sentimental woman-on-a-pedestal songs that sound fake; and fuckin ghetto ho bitch songs that sound real. Snoop doesn't seem to have a very high opinion of women...
And that's the Dizzle
My tenant is back. (If I felt like BlogIt!, the link to the earlier entry where she broke her leg in the front yard would be here.) She has been gone almost three months. When Grace and I pulled up before the homestead, Snoop blasting on the car stereo, she was sitting on her side of the porch. My tenant's 'visiting' son and my lesbian neighbor were with her.
Home Is Where The Heart Is
Although I miss my friends and life in Boston and Colorado, it is good to be back in my quiet duplex. (No stereo; no Doggpound.) I've pulled up more carpeting and painted more floors. The upper hallway and stairs are painted a deep midnight blue. Pretty sleek, if I may say so myself. The paint? $9/gal after rebate. I'm so thrifty.
My vacations reminded me, again, that I do not want to stay in Dayton long term, but I'm here for now and I might as well make the best of it. Checking up on my finances, I'm making progress cutting down my debt. I refinanced a few months ago, and now pay net $200 mortgage. On the Colorado rental, I've been paying bi-weekly and an extra $50 each time toward the Principle. I took out a 401k loan (3.5% that I pay myself) and got rid of 2 credit cards. I've been paying cash for everything else.
Even my trips. BIPC paid a significant part of my Colorado trip; The rest will be tax-deductible because I visited the rental. The Boston trip was cheap because I stayed with friends and my 501c3 friend got the Provincetown hotel room donated.
So, what's next?
Topic: Web Development. I was starting to rearrange this blog (see a few entries back), and then I got all sentimental. I don't want to lose the old template like I did after "Chapter I". I like xhtml coding; it brings out the obsessive compulsive in me -- such as every <> requires a matching </>, etc. It also brings out a creative side. (Look, #B00014 is such a pretty color!)
I arrived in Denver to stay with the same experimental cinema friend I traveled to Boston with. (My parents and a lot of my friends think we're dating. "Say Hello to {Friend} when you see him." "Did you have a Nice Time with {Friend}?" NO, we are NOT dating. My friend knows about this blogsite and sometimes visits, leaving profound comments. Cool website!!!!!!!!!!! is one my favorites.)
My friend was sweating when I arrived, "Uhh, I have this assignment and I have to get it done by midnight." It was to learn Dreamweaver, a webpage-designing tool. "Do you want to help me?"
Long story short: I learned Dreamweaver. Or, at least some basics. I also learned a bit of Fireworks, the imaging software. This week, turning on Blogger/Blogspot, the redesigned text editor here has a very Dreamweaver-esque look and feel to it. (I prefer to work with the html code.)
My friend's been shooting a film this summer, following Madonna concerts (see several entries back). His film, including the Boston footage, had come back, so we set the projector for a screening on his wall.
It is good, very good. Raining men, but different than the way I had speculated. Particularly funny were scenes of silently dancing men in and around Las Vegas pools. The only women here were harried waitresses darting in and out and not serving drinks fast enough. (It didn't look like these men felt much positive towards women, either. Gimme my f*%*^$g drink, bitch!) The footage I shot looked like I thought it would: Ant-crowds and shadows swarming around desolate buildings.
Chick Lit
One purpose of my trip was to F2F with my boss. Face to face. You see, I am a Department of One, reporting to a management structure 1,000 miles away. One evening last week, my boss and I went to a Martini and Cigar Bar that he'd never been to before. He drank bourbon; I ordered some kind of martini. Five of them. (I saw he called in sick the next day, heh heh.)
We've always gotten on well, but that night we bonded. Our longest relationships each were for six years. (We have so much in common!) He doesn't know where his current relationship is going. I told him I had stopped looking. "That's when you'll meet somebody." Yeah, yeah. On a bike path, no doubt.
We talked about writing: Thomas Wolfe; Jack Kerouac. We'd both read the Ann Charters biography on Kerouac. My boss was an American Literature grad. Lucky for us, BIPC, or rather its subsiduary LUPC, loves Liberal Farts Majors.
He told me about meeting Gary Snyder and Ginsberg. I told him about meeting John Waters, most recently in P-town a couple of weeks ago. (Yeah, I know. Not quite the same.) Maybe I'll write about it sometime...
What I'm Reading now
I'm finishing up a compilation of short stories, published in the 1960s, and which I found in a $1 bin of a used bookstore. It has selections from the 1960s heavy-hitters: Vonnegut, Bellow, Roth. It includes selections by Ken Kesey and John Lennon, which I'm wondering were added to help boost sales. Many of the authors were ones I've never heard of.
It's been good to read these, to read for the first time many authors who are considered modern classics. I particularly liked two authors with Ohio roots I'd never heard of before: this and this guy. They are in my sights for further reads.
By contrast, I had never read Pynchon, and I found his short story "V. in Love" (from his novel "V.") nearly incomprehensible. There was some tedious writing -- people trying to out-Vonnegut Vonnegut or out-Kerouac Kerouac.
So, I made an appointment...
During our gab session, I babbled to my boss about how much I liked the xhtml coding. I asked -- and got! -- approval from BIPC to attend graduate school in web development. 75% tuition reimbursement, Schlubby dubby doo!
Today, I met with a counselor here. There are several options to consider. I will sort through it all later.
Over ten years ago now perhaps, I remember there was some rave-y like song with an über-voice chanting The Future Is Now.
(So, off now for a bike ride.)
But I don't feel like being literary today. In fact, since I've been back I haven't felt much like being literary at all.
Instead, I feel like being random and superficial. So much more fun. And a more accurate portrayal of how my scatter brain works. Are you ready? Here we go...
Grace and I went on a nice walk the other day. She wasn't particularly peppy, probably because her evil human companion had her in the 'spa' for over a week. We went to Carillon Park, which looks like it was developed in Dayton's sunset of ruling the industrial world. (If I had to guess, the 1960s. The tame, avacado 1960s; not those commie pinko summer-of-love, "other" 1960s.)
According to a naughty weblink a friend once set me, parts of the park are 'sociable' (if you know what I mean nudge nudge wink wink). However, dear bloggies, that is *not* why I went there with Grace.
Other than a belltower that is now so out-of-tune that any song it plays is muddled noise, there are a couple of Ye Not-So-Olde Historick Buildings uprooted and "restored" from other places. There is a bike path (where the 'socializing' occurs) along the river, and wide fields. It is the wide fields that Grace and I walked. We -- well, Grace in her hunting-dog mode -- came across a discarded CD.
Fo' Shizzle Izzle
It was Snoop Doggy Dogg y'all. Tha Bo$$. I've been listening to it ever since -- or the last few days at least. Sho can lay down a rhyme. Sometimes. He has two song types: Highly sentimental woman-on-a-pedestal songs that sound fake; and fuckin ghetto ho bitch songs that sound real. Snoop doesn't seem to have a very high opinion of women...
And that's the Dizzle
My tenant is back. (If I felt like BlogIt!, the link to the earlier entry where she broke her leg in the front yard would be here.) She has been gone almost three months. When Grace and I pulled up before the homestead, Snoop blasting on the car stereo, she was sitting on her side of the porch. My tenant's 'visiting' son and my lesbian neighbor were with her.
- "Hey what you up to little boy," my lesbian neighbor called out. ("Little Boy." Isn't that cute?) "Who ya listenin' to, Eminem? I like him."
"You do?" My tenant's son scrunched his face in disbelief.
"Yes," I said, "he and Snoop both have done so much for the gay community."
Home Is Where The Heart Is
Although I miss my friends and life in Boston and Colorado, it is good to be back in my quiet duplex. (No stereo; no Doggpound.) I've pulled up more carpeting and painted more floors. The upper hallway and stairs are painted a deep midnight blue. Pretty sleek, if I may say so myself. The paint? $9/gal after rebate. I'm so thrifty.
My vacations reminded me, again, that I do not want to stay in Dayton long term, but I'm here for now and I might as well make the best of it. Checking up on my finances, I'm making progress cutting down my debt. I refinanced a few months ago, and now pay net $200 mortgage. On the Colorado rental, I've been paying bi-weekly and an extra $50 each time toward the Principle. I took out a 401k loan (3.5% that I pay myself) and got rid of 2 credit cards. I've been paying cash for everything else.
Even my trips. BIPC paid a significant part of my Colorado trip; The rest will be tax-deductible because I visited the rental. The Boston trip was cheap because I stayed with friends and my 501c3 friend got the Provincetown hotel room donated.
So, what's next?
Topic: Web Development. I was starting to rearrange this blog (see a few entries back), and then I got all sentimental. I don't want to lose the old template like I did after "Chapter I". I like xhtml coding; it brings out the obsessive compulsive in me -- such as every <> requires a matching </>, etc. It also brings out a creative side. (Look, #B00014 is such a pretty color!)
I arrived in Denver to stay with the same experimental cinema friend I traveled to Boston with. (My parents and a lot of my friends think we're dating. "Say Hello to {Friend} when you see him." "Did you have a Nice Time with {Friend}?" NO, we are NOT dating. My friend knows about this blogsite and sometimes visits, leaving profound comments. Cool website!!!!!!!!!!! is one my favorites.)
My friend was sweating when I arrived, "Uhh, I have this assignment and I have to get it done by midnight." It was to learn Dreamweaver, a webpage-designing tool. "Do you want to help me?"
Long story short: I learned Dreamweaver. Or, at least some basics. I also learned a bit of Fireworks, the imaging software. This week, turning on Blogger/Blogspot, the redesigned text editor here has a very Dreamweaver-esque look and feel to it. (I prefer to work with the html code.)
My friend's been shooting a film this summer, following Madonna concerts (see several entries back). His film, including the Boston footage, had come back, so we set the projector for a screening on his wall.
It is good, very good. Raining men, but different than the way I had speculated. Particularly funny were scenes of silently dancing men in and around Las Vegas pools. The only women here were harried waitresses darting in and out and not serving drinks fast enough. (It didn't look like these men felt much positive towards women, either. Gimme my f*%*^$g drink, bitch!) The footage I shot looked like I thought it would: Ant-crowds and shadows swarming around desolate buildings.
Chick Lit
One purpose of my trip was to F2F with my boss. Face to face. You see, I am a Department of One, reporting to a management structure 1,000 miles away. One evening last week, my boss and I went to a Martini and Cigar Bar that he'd never been to before. He drank bourbon; I ordered some kind of martini. Five of them. (I saw he called in sick the next day, heh heh.)
We've always gotten on well, but that night we bonded. Our longest relationships each were for six years. (We have so much in common!) He doesn't know where his current relationship is going. I told him I had stopped looking. "That's when you'll meet somebody." Yeah, yeah. On a bike path, no doubt.
We talked about writing: Thomas Wolfe; Jack Kerouac. We'd both read the Ann Charters biography on Kerouac. My boss was an American Literature grad. Lucky for us, BIPC, or rather its subsiduary LUPC, loves Liberal Farts Majors.
He told me about meeting Gary Snyder and Ginsberg. I told him about meeting John Waters, most recently in P-town a couple of weeks ago. (Yeah, I know. Not quite the same.) Maybe I'll write about it sometime...
What I'm Reading now
I'm finishing up a compilation of short stories, published in the 1960s, and which I found in a $1 bin of a used bookstore. It has selections from the 1960s heavy-hitters: Vonnegut, Bellow, Roth. It includes selections by Ken Kesey and John Lennon, which I'm wondering were added to help boost sales. Many of the authors were ones I've never heard of.
It's been good to read these, to read for the first time many authors who are considered modern classics. I particularly liked two authors with Ohio roots I'd never heard of before: this and this guy. They are in my sights for further reads.
By contrast, I had never read Pynchon, and I found his short story "V. in Love" (from his novel "V.") nearly incomprehensible. There was some tedious writing -- people trying to out-Vonnegut Vonnegut or out-Kerouac Kerouac.
So, I made an appointment...
During our gab session, I babbled to my boss about how much I liked the xhtml coding. I asked -- and got! -- approval from BIPC to attend graduate school in web development. 75% tuition reimbursement, Schlubby dubby doo!
Today, I met with a counselor here. There are several options to consider. I will sort through it all later.
Over ten years ago now perhaps, I remember there was some rave-y like song with an über-voice chanting The Future Is Now.
(So, off now for a bike ride.)
Monday, July 19, 2004
My Own Terminal Story
(This is edited from my handwritten journal 7/10/04, so it's a little different.)
When it comes to traveling by air, I avoid stress at all costs. I show up for my flight four, if not five, hours in advance. This method is supposed to account for crowded parking lots, pushy lines, rude employees, and curve-balls like last minute gate changes.
If I'm lucky and I'm at the gate with hours to spare, then it may be the only time I read magazines during the year -- mens' fitness (for the articles, of course!) and personal finance (to check that the experts agree with my portfolio choices, ha ha).
For my working vacation to Colorado last week, I was even more neurotic than usual and arrived at the Birthplace Of Aviation's own International Airport six hours before take off. For this, the airline got me onto an earlier flight for the first leg of the journey -- a tiny 34-seat prop. Ah, and comfy enough to have the row to myself!
But as the stewardess readied to close the door, a passenger near me jumped up, strode forward, said a few words to her, and she let him out. Just like that.
Welcome aboard, we've been cleared for take off to Chicago Midway. The second prop kicked in and the plane began rumbling away from the gate. At the runway, we waited; me, with a jittery feeling. After an hour of sitting, the engines revved and we turned back: We are returning to the gate. All passengers and luggage will disembark for a security check. The cell phones around me snapped open, "There's been a breach in security, I have no idea when I'll get there." Please do not use cellular devices until the captain has notified you that is alright to do so.
Our plane bounced back to the gate just as another plane -- my original flight -- pulled away. Hah! Inside, tempers lined up at the counter. I disappeared with my magazines into a corner.
Then, just out of sight above me, a girl began crying out, and her cries rapidly turned to piercing screams. Suddenly, people were yelling and running from every direction; The girl had fallen at the top of an escalator and had caught her hair in its mechanics. An emergency crew rushed by in neon yellow with a stretcher.
I'm not superstitious, but I noticed I followed a significantly less number reboarding the plane.
When we landed, it was well after sundown and just ahead of a storm that grounded all remaining flights. Not that it mattered, I had long missed my connection. A cross-section of America seethed through the hub. "When it's weather, there is no compensation," barked the blunt corporate representative. I thought she said "conversation" and it might as well have been.
Sullen workers began unfolding cots in rows. One look at that and the crowd gathering, and you betcha I took off for less populated regions. Beyond a shuttered food court and past a couple of emptying gates on a different concourse, I located a corner: Vacant settees, fuzzing monitors with soundless reporters whose lips moved and strangely looked like saints, and a view of the silent rain outside pounding clouds off planes.
I sat. Visions of suspicious passengers, screaming girls and the drone of engines lurked nearby, but a supplicating trio gently moved in. A female began: Caution - the moving walkway is about to end. Then a male joined: Attention - the concourse is now closed. Only ticketed passengers and employees with valid identification may remain. And in the background, their brother: Due to heightened security, unattended baggage will be confiscated by airport police and may be destroyed.
2:49 a.m. in amber light. A zamboni-like machine sweeps the floors. A rogue security guard or straggles of a cleaning crew wander by. A stewardess still with her heels and luggage-with-a-handle clips by with a coffee. I lie on my back facing the popcorn ceiling and tightly clutching that boarding pass, my reason for living.
Caution - the moving walkway is about to end. Attention - the concourse is now closed. Due to heightened security, unattended baggage... Caution... Attention... closed... security... caution...
It was odd, and an interesting start to the vacation...
(I have not seen The Terminal. I hear it stinks, but the reviews don't agree. Now I'm curious.)
When it comes to traveling by air, I avoid stress at all costs. I show up for my flight four, if not five, hours in advance. This method is supposed to account for crowded parking lots, pushy lines, rude employees, and curve-balls like last minute gate changes.
If I'm lucky and I'm at the gate with hours to spare, then it may be the only time I read magazines during the year -- mens' fitness (for the articles, of course!) and personal finance (to check that the experts agree with my portfolio choices, ha ha).
For my working vacation to Colorado last week, I was even more neurotic than usual and arrived at the Birthplace Of Aviation's own International Airport six hours before take off. For this, the airline got me onto an earlier flight for the first leg of the journey -- a tiny 34-seat prop. Ah, and comfy enough to have the row to myself!
But as the stewardess readied to close the door, a passenger near me jumped up, strode forward, said a few words to her, and she let him out. Just like that.
Welcome aboard, we've been cleared for take off to Chicago Midway. The second prop kicked in and the plane began rumbling away from the gate. At the runway, we waited; me, with a jittery feeling. After an hour of sitting, the engines revved and we turned back: We are returning to the gate. All passengers and luggage will disembark for a security check. The cell phones around me snapped open, "There's been a breach in security, I have no idea when I'll get there." Please do not use cellular devices until the captain has notified you that is alright to do so.
Our plane bounced back to the gate just as another plane -- my original flight -- pulled away. Hah! Inside, tempers lined up at the counter. I disappeared with my magazines into a corner.
Then, just out of sight above me, a girl began crying out, and her cries rapidly turned to piercing screams. Suddenly, people were yelling and running from every direction; The girl had fallen at the top of an escalator and had caught her hair in its mechanics. An emergency crew rushed by in neon yellow with a stretcher.
I'm not superstitious, but I noticed I followed a significantly less number reboarding the plane.
When we landed, it was well after sundown and just ahead of a storm that grounded all remaining flights. Not that it mattered, I had long missed my connection. A cross-section of America seethed through the hub. "When it's weather, there is no compensation," barked the blunt corporate representative. I thought she said "conversation" and it might as well have been.
Sullen workers began unfolding cots in rows. One look at that and the crowd gathering, and you betcha I took off for less populated regions. Beyond a shuttered food court and past a couple of emptying gates on a different concourse, I located a corner: Vacant settees, fuzzing monitors with soundless reporters whose lips moved and strangely looked like saints, and a view of the silent rain outside pounding clouds off planes.
I sat. Visions of suspicious passengers, screaming girls and the drone of engines lurked nearby, but a supplicating trio gently moved in. A female began: Caution - the moving walkway is about to end. Then a male joined: Attention - the concourse is now closed. Only ticketed passengers and employees with valid identification may remain. And in the background, their brother: Due to heightened security, unattended baggage will be confiscated by airport police and may be destroyed.
2:49 a.m. in amber light. A zamboni-like machine sweeps the floors. A rogue security guard or straggles of a cleaning crew wander by. A stewardess still with her heels and luggage-with-a-handle clips by with a coffee. I lie on my back facing the popcorn ceiling and tightly clutching that boarding pass, my reason for living.
Caution - the moving walkway is about to end. Attention - the concourse is now closed. Due to heightened security, unattended baggage... Caution... Attention... closed... security... caution...
It was odd, and an interesting start to the vacation...
(I have not seen The Terminal. I hear it stinks, but the reviews don't agree. Now I'm curious.)